


Dear Lady Disdain

by igrockspock



Category: Madam Secretary
Genre: Backstory, Banter, Ethical Debate, F/M, First Meetings, Misses Clause Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21854773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrockspock/pseuds/igrockspock
Summary: The first time Elizabeth meets Henry, she thinks he's a pretentious prick.
Relationships: Elizabeth McCord/Henry McCord
Comments: 22
Kudos: 80
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Dear Lady Disdain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Wavesinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/gifts).



> Hi wavesinger! I loved so many things in your letter -- your general enjoyment of philosophical ponderings, your appreciation for Elizabeth's brilliance, and your questions about her first meeting with Henry. I hope a little of all of those things show through in this story.

The first time Elizabeth meets Henry, she thinks he’s a pretentious prick.

Thursday night isn’t the traditional night for going out on campus, but it’s sufficiently weekend-adjacent to produce a few good parties, and that’s what Elizabeth’s after. It’s December 1, so finals are right around the corner, and after that, her least favorite decision of the year: should she go home with a friend and play Poor Orphan Elizabeth, or should she spend three silent weeks on campus by herself? She could get so much done in three weeks, she knows - there are graduate programs to look at, even though she’s only a junior, and she’d checked those Arabic tapes out of the library again, nevermind that she barely has time to look at them…

But then everyone will come back to school and ask what she’d done with her break, and if she tells the truth, they’ll ask why she didn’t come home with them instead, and then…

Nope, nope, nope. She isn’t thinking about this tonight. She’s getting stupid drunk and going home with a stranger, because she’s a grownass lady and she can do what she wants.

The party she finds is hosted by a grad student, so it’s marginally more tolerable than a frat party, although the beer still tastes like piss. Boyz II Men is playing on the stereo in the corner, and she’s thinking she might go dance when she hears something she can’t ignore.

“Ethical systems can’t be based on the consequences of our actions. What matters is the underlying principle.”

 _Leave it, Bess_ she tells herself, but she already knows it’s a hopeless cause. The worst part is that this guy is actually _winning_ the argument, convincing some other poor sucker that consequences have nothing to do with morality. She can’t let that happen.

“Excuse me,” she says, shoving herself into the little crowd that had gathered for the debate.

The guy standing across from her is aggressively clean cut, like he’d just escaped from the air base at Virginia Beach. He’s not at all the waspy-looking philosophy PhD candidate she’d expected to find, which doesn’t mean she isn’t about to decimate him.

“Is it good, on principle, to save a child’s life?” she asks, ready to get down to business.

“Sure, of course.” The guy is blinking at her, looking startled but still deliciously unwary.

“And if it costs a million dollars to save that child’s life?”

“Irrelevant,” he answers, placid and a little bored.

Elizabeth narrows her eyes. “Okay, supposing it cost $100 million or a billion dollars to save that same child’s life? Should we do it then?”

He hesitates, sensing a trap. “A billion dollars to save a child? When does that ever happen? That’s a straw man and you know it.”

Elizabeth rolls her eyes. Dodging a question is a sure sign that victory is near. “You know as well as I do that there are dozens of rare diseases that could probably be cured if the government were willing to devote its full budget to medical research. So I ask again: if it would cost a billion dollars to save a single person’s life, should we do it?”

“That’s a valid point,” he says. And then he does something weird: he actually _smiles_ at her, like being publicly humiliated in a contest of logic is the best thing that’s happened to him all damn day. “You know, I see where you’re going with this. Ethical systems that can’t be applied to the real world are meaningless, and the real world has scarce resources, which means we have to distribute them in a way that maximizes good for everyone. So yeah, consequences have to be part of that.”

“You admit I’m right?” That’s anticlimactic. She had a good seventeen backup questions ready, and she’s not even going to get to use one of them.

“I’m not prepared to concede completely to someone who’s more interested in argumentation as a form of recreation than a tool for finding truth, but yeah, I can admit I have more to think about.”

That’s somehow the most humble and pretentious thing she’s ever heard anyone say, but there’s a more pressing issue: her beer’s empty, and she’s a long way from her goal of being too drunk to be upset about the existence of Christmas.

“Well, my work here is done,” she says with a shrug. 

“Wait, wait, wait.” The guy trails after her, all the way to the keg. “You destroyed my entire conception of morality in two minutes. At least give me your name.”

“Elizabeth. Liz, Lizzie, Beth, Bess. Take your pick.” She waves an airy hand. Truth is, she likes letting people name her. It makes her feel like she belongs to them, without having to give very much of herself away.

“Elizabeth then.” He sticks out a hand. “Henry McCord. Let me buy you a beer.”

She looks down at her red solo cup, which is infuriatingly empty. “The beer is free.” Well, _almost_ free. She’d put a five in the donation pitcher; she’s not a cretin.

“Okay then.” The guy -- Henry -- is clearly not going to give up. “Let me buy you...a coffee? A margarita? Wine?”

“Wine,” she says decisively. She knows nothing about it, been meaning to learn for ages. Now’s as good a time as any.

Henry looks suddenly worried, and she takes stock of the little holes in his jeans and his scuffed black shoes. Clearly he thinks she expects something nice, and she catches herself softening.

“What about a really good cheeseburger?” she asks. Come to think of it, she’d eaten a bowl of popcorn for dinner, not the best move when she’s planning to get blindingly drunk. 

Henry’s face lights up. Like, actually lights up. As if she’d broken his heart by asking for wine he couldn’t afford and repaired it completely by asking for a cheeseburger. Her stomach does a little flip, and she tells it to settle down. She’s not looking for an entanglement; she’s looking for a greasy dinner with a side of decent conversation.

Except, shit, is he fishing out his keys?

“I hope you don’t mind a bit of a drive,” he says, giving them a little shake.

Her mom hadn’t lived long enough to give her much advice about boys, but she’s pretty sure _don’t get in a car with a man you just met_ would’ve been on the list. Of course, she was planning to take a stranger back to her apartment for sex tonight, so really, between the two, the car is probably better. And she really wants that cheeseburger.

“Not at all,” she says with a shrug. “Unless you’re an axe murderer. You’re not an axe murderer, right?”

“I prefer chainsaws. They’re so much more efficient.” He pauses. “Wait, are _you_ an axe murderer?”

Elizabeth nods. “I’m a traditionalist.”

***

Henry drives a battered blue pickup that looks like it would be more at home on her grandparents’ horse farm. There’s thick silver duct tape over holes in the seats, but otherwise, the interior is almost obsessively neat - a travel coffee cup wedged inside a holder, maps tucked into a pocket in the passenger door, one box of kleenex sitting exactly halfway between the passenger and the driver’s seat.

“Which is it? FBI or Marines?” Elizabeth asks when they pull onto the highway to Quantico. It _has_ to be one or the other, although she thinks she’s pulling for FBI. More entertaining spy shenanigans, maybe fractionally less toxic masculinity.

“Marines.” He gives her a sidelong glance, eyebrows raised. “You going to hold that against me?”

“I dunno,” Elizabeth says, which is true. “How do they feel about your chainsaw murder habit?”

“I won’t tell them if you don’t.”

“Depends on how good the cheeseburgers are.”

To be fair, they _smell_ pretty amazing. They’re pulling into a parking lot of a strip mall, next to a shoe repair shop that’s seen better days and a windowless storefront whose handwritten sign instructs prospective customers to knock if the door is locked during business hours. The burger shop consists of one narrow window and a row of stools along a high white counter, its neon sign flickering in the dark. There are only two reasons anyone would come here: they’re a serial killer looking for a quiet place to dispose of a victim, or the burgers are beyond belief. She really hopes it’s the second one.

Fortunately, she’s not disappointed, although she would’ve given Henry a run for his money if he’d tried to kill her in the parking lot. She’s no slouch at self-defense, but she’s much happier sitting on this rickety bar stool, trying to get her mouth around a tower of caramelized onions while gooey cheese drips down her fingers. There’s only one problem: Henry’s distracting her by being a puzzle she can’t figure out.

“So you’re a Marine? And a grad student in philosophy?” she asks, even though putting down the burger long enough to talk is a real sacrifice.

“Theology,” he corrects.

_Yech._ She should’ve known. Organized religion is _not_ her thing, never has been, never will be.

“You’re a chaplain,” she says.

Henry shakes his head. “Fighter pilot.”

He says it so casually that she thinks he’s joking. She stays focused on her onion rings -- they’re outrageously crisp -- and waits for the punchline. When a whole awkward minute has passed, she says, “Actually?”

“There’s a picture on the wall behind you.” He points, and for the first time, she notices the wood-paneled walls are lined with snapshots of men and women in uniform. The regulars, she figures. Sure enough, right behind her, is Henry standing in front of a fighter jet. _His_ fighter jet, apparently.

“Did you choose this spot on purpose?” That’s a hell of a coincidence, popping her down right in front of this photograph.

“Might’ve.” His lopsided grin has just one dimple.

Wait a second, how often does he take women here? 

She shoves away the little stab of jealousy. He’s a pretentious prick; she doesn’t care. _Not that pretentious_ says a voice in her head. He’d backed down fast when he knew he was wrong. And even if he is a prick, he’s an _interesting_ prick. How does fighter pilot and theologian exist in a single person? 

“And you’re -- let me guess -- pre-law,” he says, interrupting her train of thought before she can form a real question about his career path.

“Not a chance.” She leaves out the part where it took two and a half internships to figure out she hated it. “Every kind of law is boring or corrupt. Or it doesn’t pay enough to pay off the loans.” 

“I stand corrected,” Henry says, and Elizabeth tells herself that she doesn’t care if he admires her sense of ethics -- or judges her for caring about money when there’s good work to be done. But he doesn’t _look_ judgmental when he asks, “Then where did you learn to argue like that?”

“I was the captain of my high school debate team. Well, _co_ -captain,” she corrects. She doesn’t like taking credit for work that isn’t wholly hers.

“I was destroyed by a high school debater,” he says, but he doesn’t look angry or indignant, just impressed. 

Elizabeth’s stomach does a little flip again, and this time she doesn’t try to fight it. She’s licking cheese off her fingers now, and she doesn’t miss the way Henry’s eyes track her lips. So what if she’d failed in her mission to get wasted? Doesn’t mean she can’t still enjoy part two, sleeping with an almost-stranger.

She leans across the table, letting just a little of her cleavage peek through her top. “Henry, would you like to come home with me tonight?”

He clears his throat and sighs. “God I wish I were a different kind of man right now.”

“You mean you’re --”

“Completely incapable of casual sex? Yeah.” He gives her a rueful grin. 

Shit, shit, shit. Heat’s climbing up her cheeks, embarrassment at being refused so quickly. She doesn’t usually misjudge like this. Worse, her stomach plummets at the thought of Henry driving her back to her studio and disappearing forever. But dammit, she’d made a decision. She doesn’t have _time_ for men right now. They’re always demanding her attention when she has so much to study and so much to learn, and anyway, she’s not all that far from graduation. Now’s the time to be free, plan her life around what _she_ wants and nobody else.

Still, he’s a fighter pilot and a theologian. She’s not going to find another one of _those_ lying around if she lets this one get away.

“So you’re saying I have to buy you dinner first?” she hazards.

“Probably more than once.”

Her heart shouldn’t be beating this fast, like she’s about to step off a cliff into some wild unknown. “Okay,” she says. “Name a time and place, and it’s a date.”


End file.
